


Three's A Crowd

by Harp_of_Gold



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angbang is an open relationship, Dissociative Episode, Double Penetration, Fealty Kink, Fëanor Invented Butt Plugs, M/M, Mairon isn't here but he's very present in Melkor's thoughts, Manipulation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not quite rapist pov, Oral Sex, Sibling Incest, Size Kink, Threesome - M/M/M, Tolkien Secret Santa, Unhealthy Relationships, Years of the Trees, but if that makes you uncomfortable this may too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28280241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harp_of_Gold/pseuds/Harp_of_Gold
Summary: Fingolfin wants to offer Fëanor his begetting-day gift personally. He ends up giving far more than he'd expected.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor, Fëanor/Fingolfin/Melkor, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 57
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2020





	Three's A Crowd

**Author's Note:**

  * For [falindis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falindis/gifts).



> Written for Tolkien Secret Santa. Hope you enjoy!!

“I know you can alter your form however you like. It’s a choice to be this _impossibly_ huge.”

Melkor smirked down at the little princeling struggling to impale himself on the Vala’s cock. “I never said it wasn’t, Fëanáro.” He gripped Fëanor’s hips and encouraged him down, feeling the tight pucker of his entrance slowly part and give way. He moaned as his cock pushed into the boy, and he was clenched in velvet heat. Fëanor had closed his eyes and was softly cursing to himself. Melkor claimed his mouth again, rubbing his lower back and giving him time to stretch. Of course he could adopt a more bearable form, but where would be the fun in that? He loved to watch Fëanor tremble and fight his body’s resistance. It felt so good when his eyes widened and he slid the rest of the way down Melkor’s shaft, hissing in pain and pleasure at once, knowing he’d feel it for days. No, he’d never make it easier for his eager young lover, however he grumbled, and he thought Fëanor preferred it that way. He never backed down from a challenge, and Melkor was happy to provide.

Soft light from the gems on the bench where they’d been working illuminated Fëanor’s face. He kissed back fiercely, like it was a contest between them. Melkor liked that pride. “I thought your little invention was supposed to help. Time for another prototype, perhaps?” He thrust up into Fëanor, and he gasped, throwing back his head, giving in to overwhelming sensation. If it was a contest, Melkor thought he was winning.

Panting, Fëanor glanced over at the plug they’d tossed aside. Melkor had greatly enjoyed working it out of him, pulling it back to the widest point only to shove it deep in his ass again. The loveliest stream of whimpers had fallen from the prince’s mouth. “The plug works fine. _You_ won’t pick one size and stay there.”

Melkor grinned. “The best size is the one that gets you to squirm and swear—”

A knock at the workshop door made them both freeze.

“What the fuck?!” Fëanor snarled. “Who would even…?” The knock sounded again. “Just a moment!” Fëanor shouted. “Valar damnit.” He groaned as he carefully slid off Melkor's cock and clambered from his lap, jerking his tunic haphazardly over his head. Melkor faded into shadow as he opened the door. He didn’t need his meddlesome brother finding out how close he’d gotten to the Noldor’s crown prince.

“What are _you_ doing here?” _Such icy contempt to come from an Elf,_ Melkor thought, pleased.

“Tomorrow’s your begetting day; I hoped to give you my gift early. Can I come in?”

Sighing, Fëanor called to Melkor over his shoulder. “Are you decent, my lord?” 

Melkor made sure his pointed teeth became visible first. “I’m clothed, if that’s what you mean.”

Fëanor rolled his eyes. “Come on, then.” He jerked the door farther open and gestured for his guest to enter. His little brother, the one whose recent coming-of-age festivities Melkor had most decidedly not been invited to, stepped into the workshop, looking around with wide eyes. 

“Lord Melkor.” He bowed politely.

“And which one are you?” He could never keep track with so many Something-Finwë’s running about.

“Nolofinwë, my lord. Is it true, then?” He glanced from Fëanor to Melkor and back. “You're studying with…with _him?”_

“Of _course_ not,” Fëanor spat. “I'm a master in my own right, if you'd forgotten. We’re _collaborating.”_ He enunciated each syllable carefully, as if Fingolfin might not know the word.

“Indeed. And a most fruitful partnership it's proven. Two such brilliant minds are hard to come by.” Flattery got him everywhere with Fëanor, and with luck, it would get him back on his cock where he belonged soon.

“And you'll keep that to yourself,” Fëanor added. “You are interrupting us, Nolo. Let's get this over with.”

Fingolfin handed him a package wrapped in brightly-dyed fabric and tied with a ribbon of gold. Fëanor pulled the wrapping away to reveal a blood-red shirt with embroidered flowers worked over the yoke and around the cuffs. A complicated flurry of emotions danced across Fëanor's face in quick succession. It was something Melkor loved about him, his expressiveness, the way he felt everything with an intense ferocity he never bothered to hide, like a wildfire that could turn in an instant.

“I made it for you,” Fingolfin offered hesitantly when Fëanor's silence stretched.

“What have you done?! This is in my mother's style. I can't even say it's badly crafted.”

That must mean it was quite good. Fëanor didn't usually have a problem spreading those words freely.

“I've been working on it all year; I tried to do the best I could. I wanted you to have something…a little like what she might have made you. I hope that isn't too presumptuous…”

“It's entirely presumptuous. I...I don’t…” Fëanor wavered, but then he threw his arms around Fingolfin, whose face lit up. “It means a lot that you would think of her.” The pathetic puppy-dog look of adoration he gave Fëanor at this scrap of praise was…interesting. It gave Melkor ideas. Releasing him with a reluctant smile, Fëanor ruffled Fingolfin’s hair. “Listen, it's a beautiful gift, and I'll wear it all the time, but we really were in the middle of something, so…I'll see you at the party tomorrow, all right?”

“Surely that's not necessary.” Melkor moved forward with the grace of a cat to loom over Fëanor's shoulder. “He wouldn't be in the way if he wanted to stay for a while.”

Fëanor glanced up quizzically.

“Perhaps he could even be…useful.” He leaned down to murmur in Fëanor's ear. “He does have a pretty mouth, at the very least.”

Fëanor studied his brother as if seeing him in a new light. “Huh.”

“Could I really?” Fingolfin pleaded. “I've always wanted to watch you work.”

“You wouldn't understand it.”

“I’d love to listen to you explain.”

“That's beside the point, anyway. We were finished with work for today. We were…having our own celebration.” He looked to Melkor again for confirmation, and Melkor smiled. Fëanor stepped forward and trailed his fingers down Fingolfin’s cheek. “I suppose you could join us. It would be another little gift you could give me.”

Fingolfin blushed deeply as Fëanor's fingers slipped under his shirt and he took in his meaning. “I…I can’t…but we’re brothers!”

“Not _real_ brothers. That makes it fine. Besides, I've seen how you look at me. It hadn’t occurred to me you might be worth the time, but I could be convinced.”

His cheeks grew even redder. “Y-you would…”

Impatient, Melkor sent tendrils of shadow to twine around him. Fingolfin shivered at their touch. “You came here so beautifully tempting, Nolofinwë. It would be rude, would it not, to refuse your prince on his begetting day? Especially when we can see how much you want it.” Fingolfin shifted uncomfortably, but he couldn't hide the definite bulge in the front of his trousers. _“It would be rude to refuse a Vala,”_ he knew Fingolfin would be thinking.

“If you really think it's all right…” Fingolfin leaned tentatively toward Fëanor and kissed his cheek. He was taller, and it felt out of place to see him bend down to his brother, whose spirit was so much fiercer and more grand. Well. That's what kneeling was for. Melkor slid the suggestion toward Fëanor’s mind, quietly enough that he might think it his own. “I've dreamed of you. This. More.”

“Have you.” Fëanor was gazing curiously into his open expression, and Melkor thought at this rate, they would spend all afternoon talking about _feelings_ and never get around to what he wanted. Gross. He grasped Fëanor's chin and kissed him, shoving his tongue into his mouth and reminding him what they were there for.

“Let's get more comfortable, shall we?” 

“Lord Melkor, may I ask something?”

He raised an eyebrow at Fingolfin as he led them to the cot where Fëanor had a habit of collapsing after working through nights and much of the days following. “Ask.”

“Your bracelet. It's quite unusual.”

His sleeve had fallen back and revealed the braided strands of flame-red hair he never removed. It had been taken from him in Mandos, but in a strange gesture of thoughtfulness, Manwë had seen it returned when he was released. As if that could make up for anything. “Just a trinket I'm fond of.” 

Fëanor, who knew the truth of it, squeezed his hand unobtrusively. A flare of rage burned through him—no elfling should think to comfort him! Melkor should never have needed comfort, never let himself be degraded and imprisoned and torn away—but it had _worked,_ he reminded himself. Mairon was protected and free, with a good portion of their servants and everything he needed to flourish, and Melkor had finally gotten _out,_ and he'd have payment for his suffering. With interest. For now there was pleasure to be had, and he could only hope that, far across the sea, Mairon had heeded him and taken someone, slave or lover, to warm his bed as well. He didn't like to think of his Precious alone and comfortless.

“Can I kiss you?” Fingolfin asked Fëanor. Melkor sat on the cot amid the clothes he'd stripped from Fëanor earlier, and Fëanor draped himself over his lap. Fingolfin stood by looking awkward.

“Kiss Melkor; he likes your mouth.” 

Fingolfin turned to him with a hint of fear in his eyes. Melkor knew he couldn't allow himself to inspire too much of it without spoiling his plans, but oh, he loved that little spark. It made him feel more like himself. He grinned and beckoned Fingolfin closer. “If Curufinwë is cunning and skilled with his hands, I'm eager to find what deep wisdom Nolofinwë’s mouth may hold.”

“I hope I won't disappoint you, my lord.” Fingolfin’s breath was shaky as he rested like a timid sparrow beside Melkor. With a firm hand behind his neck, Melkor pressed their lips together, running his tongue over Fingolfin’s and pushing inside when he reluctantly parted them. He let out a little whimper as Melkor plundered him, and Melkor's cock pulsed with arousal. This, this was what he craved, the power to take what he wanted, and Fingolfin’s hesitation only made it sweeter. It should hurt to please him, and his subjects should obey anyway, should be eager to embrace pain and discomfort, for then it was His will they served, His power that compelled them, and not their own. He rolled Fingolfin’s lip between his teeth, felt him tense as he squeezed. Fëanor was watching avidly, and Melkor couldn't tell if it was mere attraction or if he shared the desire to see his brother brought low. A bit of both, perhaps. Fingolfin’s eyes had gone dark and glazed, and he chased after Melkor’s lips when he pulled away. Melkor laughed to himself. He _liked_ this treatment. How amusing.

Fëanor petted his brother soothingly. His other hand he’d slipped inside Melkor's robes and was surreptitiously stroking his cock. “My turn, Nolo. On your knees.” Tilting his head up for the anticipated kiss, Fingolfin lowered himself to the floor. 

Fëanor shook his head and shifted, sprawling with his legs wide over Melkor's lap as if it were his throne. “No, I want you over here.” He pointed to the floor between his thighs. 

Fingolfin started to rise to move the two steps closer, but Melkor grasped his shoulder and held him down. “Crawl for your prince, Nolofinwë.” He glanced uncertainly at Fëanor, but when he only beckoned again, he did as he was told. The way his shoulders rounded and his eyes stayed down spoke volumes of his embarrassment. Melkor savored it. He pushed Fëanor's tunic farther up and rolled his hips, sliding his cock along Fëanor's cleft. He was slick with the copious oil they'd applied earlier, and Melkor bit his lip to hold back an undignified groan.

“Am I indeed your prince?” Fëanor asked.

“Now and always,” Fingolfin answered with a sort of hushed reverence.

Fëanor had gripped his own cock, squeezing its flushed length and spreading the clear liquid beading on its tip over the head. Fingolfin watched with longing. “Come then, show me this fealty of yours.” His eyes never left Fëanor's as he bent and kissed the head of his cock, lapped up the precome there, took him into his mouth. “That's it,” Fëanor whispered. “You showed up desperate for my attention; well, you've got it now.”

Fingolfin hummed softly in pleased agreement and set to his task. They were beautiful together, Melkor noted, fascinated. He'd decided already that Fëanor would accompany him when he returned to claim his kingdom in triumph; he was certain Mairon would appreciate his value, and he hoped Mairon would enjoy sharing him, though he'd have to take care to make their relative positions clear. It wouldn't do to spark his Precious’s jealousy over a glorified pet. No one could compare to him, and he should never be made to doubt it. Fingolfin didn't have Fëanor's creative genius, but he was such a pretty toy; he might be worth the taking too. Melkor imagined him with a golden collar around his neck. Perhaps he'd even let Fëanor hold his chain. 

Brushing Fëanor's braid aside, he kissed and nibbled where his shoulder met his neck, wringing little whimpers from him, watching Fingolfin take his full length down his throat. Not so innocent as he'd seemed. Fëanor stroked his cheek with more tenderness than Melkor had thought he possessed, and Melkor was getting hungry for more. He got a hand under Fëanor and slipped a fingertip into his soft and giving hole, tugging at the rim and trying how far it would stretch. Fëanor pushed him away. He couldn't have meant it though; maybe it had been a bad angle for him. That was his own fault for sitting where he was hard to reach. He put his hand back and tested whether two fingers would feel better.

“Melkor, stop that and give me a moment to focus!”

Melkor huffed, but he wouldn't refuse a direct request; he couldn't afford the damage to his reputation. Not yet. Fingolfin did something that caused Fëanor to gasp and tighten his fingers in his hair. “Ai, Nolo! That's good, you’re doing so good, keep going just like that…”

Melkor was starting to wish he’d never invited the brat. He hadn’t imagined him actually stealing all of Fëanor's regard. Leaning down he murmured in Fëanor's ear. “Just think how good this would feel with my cock inside you.”

Fëanor held up one finger for silence, and with a despairing sigh, Melkor dropped his forehead onto Fëanor's shoulder. The _cheek_. He'd gone soft. It was the only explanation. No one but Mairon should _dare._ Fëanor was lavishing yet more praise onto his obnoxious git of a brother, and then he tugged him away from his cock. “Enough, beautiful, I don't want to come just yet.” He slung a hand behind Melkor's neck and gave him a quick kiss. _So he does remember I exist._ “I have a better idea. I’d like you both to fuck me.”

“You…want me to fuck your mouth?” Fingolfin asked, hesitant and aroused at once, if the way his cock twitched visibly through his clothes was anything to judge by.

“I want you both in my ass.”

Melkor had hoped he might mean that. Already he was tossing his robes aside. He knew the moment Fingolfin caught sight of his erection; his eyes widened, and he flinched back. “That…how…there’s no way.”

Fëanor smirked. “I can take Melkor just fine; what's a little more?”

“It’s…not just a _little_ more.”

“Take your clothes off, sweetling; let us see.” A thrill ran down Melkor’s spine at the thought of how tight Fëanor would be stretched around them. Enough, perhaps, to have him sobbing, not knowing whether to plead for more or to be released from his pain. Fingolfin didn't try to make a show of undressing, but he was lovely nonetheless, graceful and muscled, his hard cock bobbing between his legs. Some carefully-placed scars could only improve the picture; his back was a clean expanse just begging for the kiss of a whip, and Mairon could do beautiful things with a knife. What he loved most about Mairon's art was that when he was done, it was impossible to think it could ever have been any other way: the placement of each line was perfectly logical and common-sense, and yet before it was created, Melkor could never guess where his invention would take him; he knew there was nothing simple about it. Much as he liked to leave his own marks and let Mairon complete a masterpiece from his beginning, he thought he’d bring Mairon this body unscathed. He deserved the best gifts after fending for himself all this time. Melkor would bring him all the finest things he could find, pile them high at his feet, and his Precious would laugh and smile that sweet smile full of sharp teeth and declare that Melkor was all he’d ever wanted, and he'd spend the next hundred years touching Mairon softly and pleasing him in every way he knew how, and it couldn't make up for what they'd been through, but—

“My lord?” A warm hand touched his cheek, and he almost wept. There’d been no touch for so long. “My lord, you went all distant again.”

That's right, he was in Fëanor's workshop, with Fëanor in his lap, burning for him, and he had to survive Valinor a while longer. “Yes. Yes, I'm all right.” He wasn’t, really; it was far too easy still to slip away into thought and lose himself for hours, as he’d done so often to escape Mandos’ devastating chill and solitude. “I'm here now. Where were we?”

Fëanor nipped at his ear, and he growled at the slight pain. “You and Nolo were about to shove your cocks inside me and fuck me into oblivion.”

“As if you weren't a whiny mess on just mine before dear little Nolo walked in.” He smiled at the fresh blush that covered Fingolfin’s cheeks. He had settled on the cot beside them and was resting his hands on Fëanor's hips as if he feared being brushed off at any moment. “Let's get you settled on me first; I think that will be easiest.” He'd softened a bit, but Fëanor quickly set that right, stroking him with both hands slick with oil. As Fëanor perched over him, clinging to his shoulders and lowering himself slowly, rocking back and forth on his tip, Melkor seized his nipple and pinched hard, twisting it viciously.

“Nngh! Fuck! Melkor, if you're going to do that, at least kiss me or something, don't just—” 

His mouth was fit to consume, and he turned to soft, pliant whimpers when Melkor devoured him, never letting up on his torment.

“Doesn't that hurt?” Fingolfin asked from right beside him. Melkor turned and kissed him too.

“Of course it does, genius. But in kind of a good way.” He was rising and sinking on Melkor's cock, working himself deeper, and it was all Melkor could do not to toss him down and take his pleasure, whatever the cost. 

“May I?” Fingolfin’s hands wandered over Fëanor's chest, and he kept pressing little kisses into his neck. Melkor left him to it and focused on getting a finger into Fëanor alongside his cock. The boy could brag all he liked, but Fingolfin wasn't going in without a little help.

“You can…harder than that,” Fëanor said breathlessly. Fingolfin glanced up and met Melkor's eyes, and he grinned. Melkor took advantage of the distraction to slide another finger in. Fëanor gasped and clenched, almost painfully, but then Melkor felt him relax. He was moaning and babbling nonsense occasionally interspersed with “yes” and “good,” and Fingolfin was sucking marks into his neck, just below his ear where the skin was soft and sensitive.

“I believe he’s ready for you.” Melkor held out the oil to Fingolfin and leaned back, pushing up into Fëanor in little sharp thrusts because he couldn't take how good his princeling felt any longer. 

“How do I…where do you want me?”

“Get behind him. That's it.” Melkor pulled his fingers out to the music of Fëanor’s whine as Fingolfin lined himself up.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes, Nolo, do it, I want you—want to feel you, please…”

Melkor himself moaned as Fingolfin slid against him, pushing slowly into his brother while Fëanor melted, going completely boneless in his arms as he was filled. Fingolfin was intent on Fëanor's pleasure; Melkor recognized that look of concentration, that bitten lip, the way he kept pausing when Melkor knew his body was crying for more. It was the look he wore when Mairon was giving him everything, recklessly, when he had to take care for them both because his little flame was throwing himself onto the rocks of Melkor's shore in perfect confidence that Melkor would not hurt him beyond what he could bear. Melkor stroked Fëanor's back, but his eyes were on Fingolfin. “You’re doing good. Rest there a moment and let him adjust. You'll feel it when he's comfortable enough.”

Fëanor squirmed, shifting, and with a sigh, he relaxed a little farther. “I think…I think you can move now.”

Fingolfin waited for Melkor's nod before he began thrusting, cautiously at first but with increasing abandon. Melkor knew immediately this couldn't last long. He was on edge already, between Fingolfin’s friction and the way Fëanor gasped and trembled with every slight motion. He tried to keep it slow, to take his time and enjoy it as long as he could, but the heat and pleasure building in him would not be held back. He thrust deep, heard Fëanor wail, fucked into him with tight little jerks as he rode out his orgasm. Hot seed poured over his stomach, and Fingolfin was gasping, “Oh! I can feel you—can feel— _oh_ …” And then he was coming too, and Melkor felt him pulse against his cock.

They parted only as long as it took for Fëanor to grab a rag to wipe himself off and to drag them down into a happily exhausted, sweaty pile. Melkor wouldn't have accepted this… _cuddling_ from many people, but he couldn't deny his soft spot for Fëanor, and something about being enfolded in their arms, the weight of their bodies lying on his, comforted an ache that had long gone untended. Tomorrow he'd return to his work on their research and the struggle to keep himself distracted from the roaring pain of separation from his Beloved and the nightmares of Mandos he woke from screaming, but for now…for now Fingolfin had linked hands with Fëanor, and Fëanor allowed it with a dreamy, contented smile, and both of them nuzzled his chest like Mairon's wolf cubs seeking affection, and for now, all was as well as it could be.


End file.
